The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [104]
He finished the sandwich, then sat in front of the TV kneading a hunk of clay. Kneading clay relaxed him, kept his hands and arms strong.
The six o’clock news logo swirled onto the screen with a building crescendo of music and a photo array of its anchors. Such drama. Just report the goddamn news and cut the fat.
“Good evening,” the anchor said. Yes, it was indeed a good evening, thank you very much. He felt satisfied, the way you feel after eating a well-cooked meal.
“. . . the murder of Senator Eleanor Linwood has stunned members of the legislature and caused an outpouring of support across bipartisan lines. The senator’s husband, Richard Linwood, heir to the Linwood Shipping empire, was reportedly returning home from a business trip. Police are not releasing many details about the murder, except to say leads are being pursued. For more complete coverage on Senator Linwood’s long career, we go to Steve Schneiderman, standing by live. . . .”
He switched off the television, went to his freezer, and took out the container holding the beloved senator’s hand. He set the severed appendage on the table beside him and looked at it, observing it from multiple angles. “You were a very naughty bitch, Senator. Would anyone have voted for you if they knew the type of person you really were? Of course not. Of course not. Of course not.”
Well, he hoped she enjoyed their time together. He sure did. It was the most satisfying event of his life. He felt free again. Free . . . free to do whatever he wanted to, because she wasn’t there to stop him.
Almost free. Because there were a few loose ends that needed to be tied up. But there was time for that. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that time was on his side.
forty-three
Vail had spent the afternoon at the hospital, holding Jonathan’s hand, stroking his hair, talking to him. Just in case. She told him she loved him about a hundred times, or maybe it was more. It didn’t matter. He was still comatose, and although previously his eyes only opened and closed, they now moved side to side and tracked moving objects. As time passed, it was increasingly difficult for her to get excited over “incremental improvement.”
But the doctor continued to be encouraging: “He’s taking small steps. No matter how small, they are small steps. We have to remain hopeful.”
Vail shook her head. It sounded similar to what Gifford and Robby had said. Maybe she needed to start taking their words to heart.
After returning to her house, she grabbed the Dead Eyes file and spread the paperwork out on the floor in her study. The profile and supporting information went in one pile, the crime scene photos in another, VICAP reports on each victim grouped with victimology analyses. Interview notes with family members, employers, and acquaintances were placed in another spot. Medical examiner, forensic, and lab reports were separated out and laid across the floor.
Vail stood up and looked at it all, neatly organized. Like the offender.
She sat on the futon couch beside the long wall of the eight-by-ten room and let everything flow through her mind, not stopping to analyze any particular item. The blood murals, the messages left at each scene after the disputed third victim, the severed left hand, the knives through the eyes. Disemboweled vics, easily disabled. Substantial planning involved. Intelligent offender. Organized. Her thoughts had come full circle.
The doorbell rang. She pulled herself off the futon and meandered to the front door. Robby was standing there with a bouquet of flowers. “Good afternoon, Miss, care to make a contribution to the Police Officer’s Foundation?”
Vail pushed opened the screen door and said, “Sure, Officer. Here’s my donation.” She reached out, grabbed his lapel, and pulled him down to her height. Planted a hard kiss on his lips. She leaned back and studied his face.